He’d been there the whole time, “he” being a vampire and “there” being thirty feet up with his back against the room’s ceiling directly above the door. A senior, I inferred, gravity defiance being an elite sport that takes, allegedly, centuries to master. As I watched he descended, slowly, a neat slender man in what ought to be his early fifties (though he’d probably rubbed shoulders with Rameses) with artfully cropped greying hair and an elegant calm little face. Grey-green eyes and a thin mouth. The hint of a cleft in his delicate chin. Black close-fitting trousers and black rollneck sweater. I remembered the days when seeing someone move through the air like that would have been a thrilling shock, the days before we’d all seen it countless times in the movies. Modernity’s mimetic inversion: You see the real and are struck by how much it looks like a tediously seamless special effect.

“Since you know about the vampire deal,” the vampire said, when his feet touched the polished oak floor, “let’s not waste time. Donate your services voluntarily in exchange for access to Quinn’s book and the friendship of the Fifty Houses for the rest of your life.”

No point saying: Or what? Now that I could see the vampire I could smell him, too, suggestible schmuck that hybrid perception is. Stubborn pockets of wolf shivered and heaved. Here was the all-but-overwhelming limbic imperative to rip his boochie head off. Here, too, packed tight in the phantom animal haunches, was coiled flight. A migrainy ambivalence: Get him. Run. Get him. Run. There was a burst of automatic weapons fire outside, from the roof guard, I guessed.

“What’s going on out there?” Jacqueline said. I still held her by her hair. Hot scalp and the odour of shampoo. The room’s overdose of patchouli had been to mask parfum de vamp . He stood perfectly still, feet together, hands by his sides, no smile, just the trademark physical economy and the intolerable self-possession of a mime artist or juggler. He’d spoken English with an Italian accent. Casa Mangiardi? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that I hadn’t counted heads getting into the people-carrier. Four departed, one stayed behind. In a moment he’d make his move, a move so fast I’d be living in its upshot (doped, gagged, bagged and cuffed) without realising it had happened. In wolf mode I would have been a match. Human, I might as well be a blow-up doll.

“Jacob, please,” Jacqueline said. “That’s really hurting.”

Surrender made itself sensuously available, a lover who’d stolen up behind me and put her arms around me and pulled me close and was breathing on my ear. Here, if I wanted it, was the peace of dissolving into the bigger will. Cloquet’s peace with Mme Delon, no doubt.

“Jacob, please,” Jacqueline repeated. “Please.” I relaxed my grip on her hair. Let her go. She moved away. A small woman with an elfin head and a body just beginning to lose the fight. I thought of Cloquet’s enthusiasm for her anus, and smiled.

“Very good,” the vampire said. “Shall we?”

No illusions. I was going willingly or I was going after a touchingly brief struggle, but I was going. A mad cinematic montage burgeoned, of myself assimilated into vamp-camp, prisoner, yes, but civilly treated, swapping monster yarns by the evening fire, gradually rewiring revulsion, finding the common ground, investing in Helios for the sheer science, against all odds—against nature starting a verboten interspecies affair, the glacial Mia and her lovely legs—jump cut to a shot of myself in lupine form spread-eagled on a brushed-steel slab, limbs shackled and head clamped, screaming, attended by white-coated boochies and state-of-the-art invasive gizmology, blood running from my ears, nose, rectum …

More gunfire from without. Shouts. A helicopter. I wondered where poor Cloquet was in all of it, whatever it was. Wondered too, since for a few moments now the javelin had been a modest little sentience next to my foot, whether I could get down to it and hurl it before the vampire did to me whatever he was going to do. Of no more practical use (obviously, since it was metal, not wood) than giving him the finger, but in my fey state the punk pointlessness of the gesture appealed.

“Take me with you,” Jacqueline said to him. “I know it didn’t go precisely to plan, but after all you’re getting what you wanted. I swear you won’t regret it.”

“Don’t speak,” the vampire said, not looking at her. Then several things happened very fast.

An explosion shattered the wall of glass and a bolus of smoke and flame woofed into the room and almost immediately retreated again. The force of the blast blew all three of us off our feet. I smashed into the stools by the bar and felt a rib crack. The javelin went too, missed my head by six inches, buried itself in the bar’s mosaic flank behind me. The vampire, closest to the detonation, sailed spectacularly over the bar, and went into the mirror-backed brilliant bottles with a flailing crash.

Jacqueline Delon was on her hands and knees two stools down from me. A large shard of glass protruded bloodily from her outer thigh. Another from her shin. Another from the side of her head. She reached up and gently plucked this one out and looked at it. It occurred to me I might be similarly inconvenienced. Sure enough, dreamy investigation discovered a large scalene fragment sticking out of my left shoulder. I followed Jacqueline’s example and tenderly extracted it. Blood welled and hurried out. With a sort of abstracted apathy I took hold of the javelin. The out-of-sight helicopter was a deafening evocation of Apocalypse Now . The explosion had filled the room with heat, briefly; now cool air rushed in like an angel. The javelin wasn’t budging. I struggled to my feet. Jacqueline, in the silence of freakish stoicism or deep shock, hauled herself via one of the stools onto hers. One stiletto had absconded. Even in her state the imbalance was intolerable. She reached down and removed the remaining shoe. We looked at each other as if we’d both just been born.

The vampire appeared behind her. He wasn’t there, then he was. This is the way of it. Fast. Too fast. His natty little face was glass-flecked, glass-studded, beaded with blood. He wiped it, swiped it, actually, as if it were covered in maddening flies, though his expression of compact enlightenment remained intact. “Shall we go?” he said.

Then the helicopter appeared. Descended in profile like Miss Muffet’s spider. Thudding chop and the room’s lethal wreckage crazily aswirl. A WOCOP Bluebottle, lightweight, fast, handleable. The bulbous smoked-glass head dipped, once, as if in decorous greeting—Ellis beamed out at me from the pilot’s seat—then turned through 45 degrees to face us with its brutal lights.